


Fuck Like (Easter) Bunnies

by Gildedmuse



Series: Gift Wrapped [2]
Category: Rent (2005), Rent - Larson
Genre: Companion Piece, Holidays, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Canon, Two Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 17:48:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18783133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gildedmuse/pseuds/Gildedmuse
Summary: Mark knows that Easter vacation isn't about the eggs or chocolates. It's about the sex.





	Fuck Like (Easter) Bunnies

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted in 2006]

**Fuck Like (Easter) Bunnies**

 

“These guys…” Benny makes a loud sound in the back of his throat as Mark grabs onto his friend’s jacket. This is about the fifth time that Mark has made Benny stop like that, but this time it isn’t just to be annoying. “I know these guys…”

 

Out of what looks like it might be a solid wall of posters, some possibly from the original founding of New York City, Mark manages to pick out one small sheet of red. It’s fresher than the graffiti, lost dog signs, suicide help numbers, and other papers stapled and glued and taped over the large grey wall, but there really isn’t anything flashy about it. It gets his attention enough that Mark forces Benny to heal, scanning over the small poster.

 

He smirks, chuckling under his breath. Well Hungarians. Well Hung. Funny.

 

“Let me see.” Benny leans over and just snatches it from the wall, not even letting Mark finish. “I remember those guys. They played up at Brown. You were all over the lead guy, remember?”

 

“Oh, yeah…” Mark had vague memories of a Billy Idol look alike. More clearly he remembers waking up with a hang over and a erection, hardly a good combo. He also remembers it had been Benny‘s fault. “You let me get drunk. You know I don’t drink.”

 

Benny laughs, clapping Mark on the shoulder and pushing him along before they’re trampled down by the busy people of the city who don’t have time to stop and reminiscence about their good old band humping days. “No, you do drink,” he corrects. “Trust me. You drink plenty.”

 

“You know what I mean.” Letting Benny steer, Mark takes the poster back and looks for a date. “Hey, this is for tomorrow. We should go.” The nice thing about being Jewish is him mom didn’t expect him to come home from Easter, even with school being out, so Mark could waste his time in New York. So much better than anything they had up in Providence. The streets were alive, waiting on him to come in with his camera. For now, Mark is willing to settle for a vacation from studying. “Besides, what else do you have planned for Easter?”

 

“I plan to do what Jesus would have wanted me to do to celebrate his resurrection,” Benny says in a deep voice Mark is sure is impersonating someone, but he can’t tell. Most of Mark’s pop culture references are rooted deep in the fifties through seventies. “Get laid.”

 

Mark should have expected that. He snorts, folding the poster carefully and slipping it into his back pocket. “I don’t think that is exactly-”

 

“No,” Benny says, giving Mark a shove across the street. “Don’t argue. Look, I‘ll go to this little party with you just promise me you won‘t give the guy head while he‘s still on stage.”

 

“Don’t let me drink…” Mark stumbles across the busy road, darting to the next safe sidewalk and glaring back at Benny, who is still laughing at him. What an asshole of a best friend, but at the same time Mark smiles at him. That’s just how you treat the people you like, letting them get smashed and hook up with random people, even if those people are still on stage at the time. “And I’ve never given a guy head when drunk.”

 

Mark probably could have come up with a better defense than that.

 

“Not that you remember,” Benny says, patting him on the back and picking up the pace again, dragging Mark along so he can‘t stop them anymore to pick up posters of cute guys. Which he only did once, anyway. “Come on. I want to get to Collins’s before dark.”

 

The two hurry pass the skyscrapers and fancy apartments and the clubs and bars and down even pass a few slums before they manage to get to where they‘re staying for the week. Mark likes it, even if he doesn’t feel completely safe. He likes not feeling safe, since safe means suburbs and good kids and artists should be endangered a little bit of their lives.

 

Or maybe he just isn’t thinking realistically about how much damage the desperate junkie following them around could do. He is a little distracted, fingering the advertisement in his pocket. There is no reason he should be so hung up on a band that his memory has hazed over, but they’re in fucking New York City, free to do whatever they want. Mark doesn’t want to spend it sitting around in a rusted down loft. William Burroughs wouldn’t lock himself in a room. He would have wanted to experience something. Mark wants to experience something, and not something celluloid.

 

He’s a young artists in the city of young artists. There has to be something, something like a guy in make up with a guitar, that he can do that would really piss off his parents, that entire generation.

 

Not that Benny’s friend isn’t fun. Collins seems like, in what little time Mark spends with him, a fucking genius. Which is scary and amazing at the same time. And because Collins is a genius, and because Mark is being far from subtle, he picks up on the whole concert thing pretty easily. Possibly because Mark spent half the day throwing it in Benny’s face, just to remind him.

 

“Let me see that,” Collins says during dinner. Or the shared box of chow mien and beer that is their dinner, and it could just be the novelty of it all, but Mark likes that they seem to be starving. Collins leans over the coffee table, snatching the poster from Benny, who’d taken it from Mark so he’d stop shoving it in his face.

 

Collins looks over the picture like he’s reading between the lines of Naked Lunch, with that much concentration. It doesn’t take too long before he nods, handing it back to Mark. “You should go,” he tells them both before shoving a chopstick full of noodles in his mouth. “It’s Easter,” he explains, like makes sense.

 

“I’m Jewish, actually,” Mark throws in. If he wasn’t, wouldn’t he be back home, having to suffer through some commercial holiday with his family? He doesn’t care what some guy died for, it wouldn’t be worth it.

 

Collins just laughs like it is Mark who is saying the most random things and he is the one making sense. “I mean,” he says, pointing the chop sticks right at Mark. He’s never seen Collins teach, but Benny says he’s a college lecture, and the way he talks with his hands, pointing at Mark like that, it’s easy too imagine him in front of a class. “It’s Easter, or Spring, whatever you want to call it. Historically, this holiday has nothing to do with zombie Jesus or bright pastel colors. It, like everything in life, is simply about surviving. Or, to be more exact, mating.”

 

Mark looks away from the chopsticks smeared with grease and over to Benny, who is laughing softly, shaking his head. Neither look very sane. Looking back at Collins, he cocks an eyebrow, inviting him to say something more. “Sex,” Collins clarifies, and then laughs loudly, joining Benny. “Eggs, bunnies, fertility, all of that just means that this is the holiday of fucking.”

 

“I knew that…” Well, sort of. Mark knew Easter was based on an older holiday of fertility, he just never heard anyone say it like that before.

 

“So,” Collins says, laying back on the couch, getting out a joint and pressing it to his lips, and yet somehow he still looked like a teacher. The kind Mark wish taught at Brown instead of the suits they had there. “You should go to this show, get yourself laid. It’s what the Easter bunny would want.”

 

*

 

“Hey, boys…” Mark had just been dragging Benny along after him, trying to find the address on the crumbled red poster he’d left stashed in his pocket last night when this girl pops out at them. Maybe not exactly that, but one second Mark is charging forward and the next she is right there. It’s enough to make him yelp. He’s heard stories about people jumping out at you in the city. It never ends with you still having your wallet.

 

Once Mark stops acting like a girl, he sees the stranger doesn’t look so tough. She’s actually almost sick looking, her skin pale and stretched out over her skeleton. She is dressed like a punk, the kind of girl his mom would want him to avoid with the colored hair and tight clothes. Mark definitely doesn’t feel that threatened. Hell, she could have had a gun in her hand. Where Mark and Benny were looking, they probably wouldn’t have noticed.

 

“Want to listen to a new band?” Wait, is she actually talking to them? Mark figured they’d just accidentally gotten in her way because he was pretty damn sure he doesn’t know her. “They’re really awesome. They’re the Well Hungarians, and they’re-”

 

“Oh, hey.” Mark eyes jerk up, away from the girls lack of shirt. He sees the smirk she is wearing, the tape player she is thrusting out for them to give a listen to. It‘s a pretty good advertising ploy. “We’re going to that show.”

 

“Mmm…” The girl’s arms fall away, her shirt flattening out some. She sighs, looking bored and a whole lot less perky. It’s a waste of her time if they’re already going. “Well…” She pauses for a second, and then smiles at them again, another total mood swing. “You want to buy a tape?”

 

“We were at the show up at Brown.” Benny final steps up, eyes still lingering over her a bit. He hasn’t a girlfriend in ages, so Mark doesn’t really blame him. “You remember?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” she says, but Mark gets the impression she couldn’t give a fuck who they were, is just saying it to be… Well, if not nice, maybe they’ll buy a tapes. “Gear show.”

 

“Santa Blows,” Benny explains, looking at Mark and smirking, knowing what would eventually click.

 

“Oh!” And there it is. The girl brightens, and Benny just keeps smirking. “Oh, I know you.” The girl pats Mark’s chest, chipped rainbow nails snagging his shirt. “You’re the guy that dry humped my boyfriend.”

 

Wait, like boyfriend? Shit. “Oh… uh… Sorry?” Mark takes a step back, looking helplessly at Ben. If this girl goes psycho and starts clawing at his eyes, he will throw his best friend between them. Besides, this is all Benny’s fault, he wants to explain, for letting him drink that much.

 

She laughs, hand sliding away from him, pulling a few loose threads with it. “Don’t worry. I don’t have the energy to get angry every time some random guy gets drunk and tries to fuck Roger.” Giggling again, she turns on her heels with her strangely colored hair bouncing around her shoulders. Mark bites at his lip, looking over at Benny. He jumped this girl’s boyfriend on stage, and dear God why were they here again?

 

Benny sort of licks his lips, grabbing Mark’s wrist enough to hurt. “Owe,” he says, glaring at Benny who shoots a smile at the girl when she turns around.

 

“We’ll follow you,” he says, eyes not leaving the girl’s ass. He following her and dragging Mark out behind him, into some hole in the wall club covered in chipped paint, weird colored lights, and smoke. The sort of place you would film at if you wanted to give people the impression of starvation by drugs.

 

“You know,” Mark mutters once Benny sort of throw him in, letting go of his wrist. Mark rubs it, glaring at him but still following Benny right up to the bar. “She’s got a fucking boyfriend.”

 

“No,” Benny corrects, getting them two beers, flashing his fake ID. “She’s got a guy she says is her boyfriend who likes other guys. You’d have to be stupid to date someone whose bi,” he tells Mark, like Mark is going to know this for the future. He can’t even get a date with the normal, straight girls right now. Maybe it has something to do with school, or the fact that he spends most of his free time filming. Something about a cold camera in his hands, it makes him feel powerful, filtering through the shit in the world and getting down to what he wants people to see, what’s important. Most girls need a guy to obsess over them, and not already be fixated with something not them.

 

Besides, Mark isn’t exactly a 0 on the Kinsey scale himself.

 

Benny knows this. His expression softens a bit, and he pats Mark on the back when he hands him the beer he never asked for. “I mean, girls. Girls shouldn’t date biguys, right? They’re already way to suspicious and jealous.”

 

Maybe Mark did sort of want that beer. He takes a nice long drink. It pretty much tastes like cold piss. He drinks it anyway. “That doesn’t really help.”

 

“Well, uh… I mean, not like you. Girls would love to date a guy like you if it wasn’t for that weird thing you do with your camera.”

 

“What weird thing?” Mark snaps, maybe a little too possessive over his art.

 

Benny just grins. “You know, that thing where you practically sleep with it. That weird, pansexual thing.”

 

“This,” Mark says, cuffing his shoulder and taking another drink. This is how he gets drunk, talking with Benny between bottles. “Coming from the horniest guy on campus.”

 

“Second,” Benny corrects, holding up two fingers to make his point. Like Mark is already that drunk. “I never dry hump people on stage.”

 

“But fucking another guy’s girlfriend, that’s okay?” Mark asks, snorting a bit. Benny’s logic, it doesn’t make sense. Like so much right now. Why is he taking classes that are trying to teach him creativity? Why is in he in a school to learn about nonconformity? Why is he at a show for a band he doesn’t remember?

 

Wait, Mark knows that one. He just wants something that isn’t more school, more lesson, more how to guides on how to be original same as everyone else.

 

“Free love, man,” he says, still beaming, hand over his heart like this is something profound. “Haven’t you been listening to Collins at all?”

 

Mark is pretty sure all of Collins’s pretty random ramblings about life were not there just to justify Benny’s sexual habits, but he just rolls his eyes, tipping back the bottle until there is nothing left. Okay, one down, and that’s it, he’s stopping there. Or he would, if Benny didn’t just hand him another one. No point in letting it go to waste, right?

 

Between the teasing and the sex talk and Mark drinking way more than he knows he should, he keeps his eyes on the stage, wanting that first glimpse when Roger came out. Fuck, the guy is a rock star wanna be with a girlfriend, and Mark is just as bad as Benny. He doesn’t even know the guy, hardly remembers him for anymore than his last show and, well, they hadn’t exactly been engaged in a life changing conversation.

 

This is what happens when you’re in film school and you don’t have time between projects and classes and your own film to even jerk off properly.

 

“Oh!” Mark jumps in his seat, like he’s a fucking seven year old and Mickey Mouse has just appeared. “Oh! There he is!” Like Benny needs to be told when there was a pack of girls at the front of the stage who cheered loud enough that the whole club turned to look as Roger walked out on stage. Fuck, did he always smile like that. No wonder Mark decided it would be a good idea to hump his leg.

 

Gorgeous smile or not, Benny doesn’t care about the guy. “Yeah,” he says, patting Mark’s shoulder without looking at him. He had that predatory (slightly drunk) look. He’d seen someone in the crowd. “Don’t get too wasted, okay?” He says and then he’s gone, leaving Mark leaning forward in his seat, watching the way Roger moves around stage. He’s skinner than Mark remembers, clothes clinging to him so Mark could see his muscles tense and move as he set their equipment into place. It must be the fucked as hell lighting in this place, because he looked so sallow and skinny standing up there, like he is sick. Not a living skeleton, not exactly ugly, but beaten in around all the edges pass the point where it‘s really attractive.

 

Then he smiles and picks up his guitar, and Mark quits thinking.

 

Benny lefts him with two unfinished beers, and listening to Roger’s music, with his voice low and soft and the guitar chords and drum and bass beating on the walls of the club. You can’t listen to that and not finish off whatever drinks happen to be laying around.

 

It isn’t like, by finishing two last beers while listening to Roger sing and watching him stand under those lights with the sweat and the smirking and all of that, it isn’t like that is some how going to make him do something stupid. Mark learned his lesson, he wouldn’t use his dad’s credit card, his emergency card, to buy a bottle of tequila. He wouldn’t sneak backstage because small places like this don’t really have security, and make it easy even for a drunk college student. He definitely wouldn’t be standing there, waiting for Roger to finish up so that he could jump out at him, smiling hugely and thrusting the bottle at his chest because that would be crazy.

 

“Here,” Mark says, shoving the half finished bottle of tequila at Roger. “Great show. I got you something.”

 

Roger takes the bottle, pushing his bangs off his sweat covered forehead, narrowing his eyes to read the label. He smiles at Mark, that bright smile and suddenly he doesn’t look pale or sickeningly skinny at all. “Thanks, man.” There is a long pause, and a few other people, the people with drums and stuff, move by them. Roger just stands there, and Mark tries to stand there, swaying a bit on his feet. “I know you.”

 

“You’re wearing make up.” Mark giggles, more of a snort, touching Roger’s cheek were the dark black junk is dripping down his skin. It‘s funny to him for some reason, seeing a boy in make up. Mark likes it, runs his finger against Roger’s skin and comes back with black on his thumb, the make up smeared across Roger’s face. He laughs again. God, that tequila is good.

 

Roger doesn’t seem to mind, still smiling and rubbing the black off his cheek, really just rubbing it in. “Yeah, I definitely remember you. Christmas groupie, right?”

 

“You were great!” Mark says again, beaming at Roger like a kid. A few more guys shuffle by them, bumping into Mark. Or maybe Mark bumps into them, he isn’t really sure. When did it get so hard to stand?

 

Something warm brushes his waist. Oh, an arm. Roger’s arm, there to catch Mark when he stumbles over air. Fucking air. “You came back, for more, huh?”

That makes Mark laugh, but then so did the bartender’s moustache earlier, after his fourth drink. “Oh, God yes,” he says, leaning up and smiling at Roger. Even as drunk as he is, he could tell Roger loved the attention, and Mark was willing to keep going as long as he wanted.

 

“You were great,” Mark says again, a little sluggish. How is Roger moving them so easily? “So fucking amazing.” Mark is just opening up, giving Roger any compliment he can think of. It‘s like he‘s giving him all the attention his last girlfriend wanted but never got and Roger keeps smiling and keeps his arm around Mark. “Soooo Great. I’m glad I came, even if you have a girlfriend.”

 

“Huh?” Hey, where did the wall come from? They stop, and Mark bumps against it, arms scrapping the wallpaper. It almost hurts. “Oh, April?” Mark nods, rubbing the red skin of his side. Yeah, April with the wild hair and great tits. “She’s only my…. sort of girlfriend.”

 

“Yeah?” Mark asks, and Roger nods, taking the tequila and drinking from the bottle, wincing as he swallows. Mark wants to tell him that it does get better, he knows, after like the fourth drink. Instead he just pats Roger’s chest, the words never really getting out. “You are so fucking cool.”

 

Roger puts the bottle on the table next to them, nose scrunched up as he shakes the burn off. His hair is a mess, his eye make up running and he looks just like the ideal artist, the indie singer, everything Mark wants his life to be, to make his film about. So he he has to kiss him.

 

Yeah, is thoughts are jumbled, lost in the alcohol and the feeling of the club. Being in these crowds, watching everyone dance and have fun and touch, it makes Mark crave the same thing, it reminds him of just how not social being a filmmaker is, and mostly it’s just rubbing it in his face that he hasn’t had sex in so long that just watching Roger - well, watching him and getting drunk enough that he ends up backstage - makes him jump in his skin, hard as fuck and pretty willing to throw himself at anyone.

 

Benny’s words about him being a slut when he’s drunk comes back, and Mark tells them to fuck off.

 

No one ever thinks of Mark being the kind of good, suburban raised kid who would sleep around. But then, no one ever gives him the chance. There isn’t much of a kink for short, scrawny, geeky looking Jewish filmmakers, and Mark is always so busy with his camera, trying to show his dad that film is not some useless hobby. Besides, he isn’t going to be just another suburban kid much longer, he’s going to be a fucking great, famous artist. He just needs time.

 

And sex. Right now, grabbing Roger’s face and kiss him, sloppy and over eager, sex is more important than anything else he could be doing. Unless there was a really good scene… No, definitely sex first. His thoughts go back there damn quickly when Roger shoves his tongue into his mouth, pressing Mark up against the wall. Thank God. He probably couldn’t stay on his feet much longer.

 

He doesn’t have to worry about that with Roger. His hand are a little too rough, but Mark isn’t arguing when he lifts up his shirt, running them down his sides, helping to keep Mark pinned in place. He takes control of Mark, of the kiss, which is good because Mark is just sober to realize that he’s drooling a little and can’t get his tongue working right.

 

Roger pulls back and Mark whimpers, trying to find his balance so he can lean in, kiss him again. Instead he ends up slipping a bit down the wall with a whine. Fuck, why’d he stop? “God, you’re drunk..”

 

That’s it? Mark looks up at Roger, grabbing onto the wall to pull himself back up. “Well, yeah.”

 

Laughing, Roger presses their mouths together. There, that’s better. Mark manages to get his hands in Roger’s hair, the bleached locks feeling dry and wet with sweat and gel at the same time, but he holds onto him, opening his mouth and hoping Roger will just get to the point. He really doesn’t feel that good.

 

His rough hands shift, slipping down into Mark’s jeans, fingers stroking his skin and Mark moans, actually nodding hard enough to break the kiss. Roger to laugh at him again. That’s unfair, Mark is just telling him yes, good. Roger pushes him to the wall, body flush against Mark and he can feel him in his jeans, rubbing against him. Mark moans, feeling dizzy from the contact. His stomach clenches up, head spinning and, oh… that’s nausea.

 

“Shit, shit…” Mark pulls back and pulls Roger away by his hair, managing to get him far enough back that when he bends over to puke, it only gets over his crotch, the alcohol and stomach acid mixture dripping down his dark plaid pants. And he just keeps standing there, hands on Mark’s shoulders as he coughs and hacking up the last of what’s in his stomach all down Roger. Shit….

 

“Hey,” Roger says, rubbing his shoulders as Mark somehow manages to pull himself back up.

 

“Worst sex ever,” Mark mutters, trying to joke, and Roger at least laughs. It’s not like earlier, though. More of a you just throw up on me while I was making out with you laugh. Awkward, horrible. Mark is going to kill Benny.

 

“Uh…” Roger backs up, looking down at them both then back to Mark. He must look really bad, he can see it in the way Roger is looking at him. Belatedly, he wipes his chin off on his arm. Gross, but better than before. “You’re really drunk,” Roger says again, and he keeps smiling. Mark really wants to curl up in bed with some good movies and jerk off while trying to forget about this, and Roger just keep smiling. “You want me to walk you back to… wherever your staying?”

 

“Avenue B and 11th,” Mark rattles off. “And, I mean, I could…” He isn’t sure what he’s trying to say, his head is still spinning and he just threw up on a guy he doesn’t know, a guy he was making out with before that. Is this what being an artist was like? Because if it is, it tastes a lot like regurgitated tequila.

 

Even drunk, and Mark isn’t exactly the smartest kid when drunk, he expects Roger to shove him in a taxi and send him off because, well, he’s a rock star with a girlfriend and that is what he should do. Mark wouldn’t blame him. He’s never had anyone vomit on him, but he knows it isn’t a big turn on.

 

“Come on…” Roger wraps an arm around him, not lovingly or anything. More like if he doesn’t, Mark wouldn’t be able to walk. As awkward as everything is, Mark has to laugh the way Roger’s face squeezes up as he drags him from the wall. He looks so funny. “Yeah, yeah,” Roger mutters, limping out the door, Mark like a useless foot at his side. “Come on, kid, let’s get you home.”

 

“Okay…” Roger smells kind of funky, possibly Mark’s fault, but he leans into him anyway, finding his neck really comfortable for laying his head. Roger grunts and cursing under his breath as he tries to keep Mark up while he half falls asleep on him. Almost asleep and being carried by Roger, Mark can forget about the vomit and sweat and skinniness and awkward flirting, and it almost feels romantic. “I’m not gonna kill Benny,” he decides, letting Roger try and find his way back to Collins while he passes out at his side. Content.

 

“Yeah,” Roger mutters, not even down the street from the club and already out of breath, still trying to help the kid. Sweet, Mark thinks, even if he smells. “You’re really fucking drunk.”


End file.
